


Something Like Madness

by hiza-chan (callunavulgari)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/hiza-chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America should have expected it. He'd seen the movies, read the books, he should have known it was coming. He didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Initially, this was supposed to be for the 12 days event, but as you can see that didn't happen. Also, I should note that [this](http://russiamerica.livejournal.com/87930.html#cutid1) is what inspired me to write this. Crossposted to russiamerica.

  
There's a baby crying somewhere. It's cries echo up and down the crowded streets, mingling with the bittersweet symphony of screams and moans. A woman crashes to the ground before him, scrabbling at his boots with dirty hands as one of the infected tears her throat out. Blood sloshes onto the pavement, red as sin, red as Prussia's eyes had been but Prussia is gone now, fallen to the cruel hands of time.  
  
Distantly, America realizes that the child's wails have ceased.  
  
He can feel his peoples pain, all around him, even standing on this crowded street with people screaming and crying _everywhere_ , he can feel his children. All of them, states away. Even those on different continents, he can feel their terror in the back of his head, a constant shriek that tears away at his mind-  
  
The woman is beyond dead now, vertebrae gleaming at him through the carnage of what used to be her neck. The infected, the "zombie" atop her has taken interest in him now. It stares at him, milky eyes glinting savagely in the too bright light of the nearly full moon. He wonders what will happen if he is bitten. Will he die? Or will he turn into one of them? Perhaps the virus wouldn't affect him, maybe his scientists could develop a cure from his blood! He'd give it to his people and oh, their hurting would stop and that incessant wailing at the back of his head would finally be gone, and then, then America can be the hero-  
  
Blood and thicker things spatter his boots, his pants, flecks of it somehow make it all the way up to his jacket. He looks down, startled, at the zombie neatly impaled by a lead pipe. Looks up-  
  
Russia frowns at him for a moment, and oh, it's wonderful to see him, because surely Russia will know how to make the screaming stop. A grin curls around the edges of Russia's lips, and he isn't even bothered when the corpse of the woman below him startles back to life, silently shrieking at him with vocal cords long since chewed through. No, he isn't troubled at all, just smiles his mad grin and _slams_ the pipe down again, through the back of her skull.  
  
America looks up, away from the woman and the madness on the streets and only looks at Russia. Russia, who is still smiling even as he pulls a Makarov PM from his coat pocket and calmly shoots three zombies who'd been closing in on them. Perfect headshots.  
  
He looks so in his element like this, grinning with that perfect madness and twirling to and fro in the snow, his scarf streaming like a banner behind him, raining a trail of deadly hellfire on the corpses that get near enough. He wields his pipe with such familiarity, the same way America remembers England using his sword, in the old days. Thinking of England sends a dull jolt of pain through him, and he really does hope that England is safe somewhere.  
  
Russia frowns down at him again, halting his dance with the undead long enough to toss America a pistol and snap at him-  
  
"Giving up already? And here I thought you were better than this, America."  
  
Russia shakes his head, fires another shot and reloads before the zombie has even dropped to the ground. That snaps America out of it, for the moment at least, long enough for him to wrap his hands around the gun and put it to good use.  
  
He scoffs at the gun once they've reached the relative shelter of a nearby building, glances at Russia with raised eyebrows, grins to take the bite out of his words- "Russian? And here I thought you would have switched to American guns by now, _Vanya._ "  
  
Russia smiles at him, and the picturesque innocence is somewhat ruined by the blood that's spattered across his cheek. He reaches down, into his other coat pocket and draws out a well worn M-1911 Colt, and tosses it to America. Idly, America wonders just how many guns Russia has on his person.  
  
A thought occurs to him, and after blowing the head off what looked to be a long dead female stripper, he turns once more to Russia, a frown on his face.  
  
"Why _are_ you here?"  
  
Russia answers through gritted teeth as he yanks his pipe free from where it's imbedded in a fourteen year old girl's eye. America remembers that her name had been Haley.  
  
"Demonstration. My-" he _decapitates_ the zombie that he swings at "-entourage were lost when the virus broke out. I chose to-" another member of the undead falls and America can't help but wonder where the rest of the humans on this street had gotten to, it seems to be made up almost entirely of infected now "-get to high ground. Preserve myself and hope that my people will be okay."  
  
He looks up, away from the carnage, and thankfully the number of the undead has slowed to a trickle by now. He remembers though, from all those zombie movies he'd laughed at, that things were never quiet for very long in a city as big as this one.  
  
"That's actually when I saw you."  
  
America shoots a zombie in the head and wishes that he had a rifle with him. Maybe a Remington 700 on a nice roof somewhere, _yeah,_ that would be handy. He glances out of the corner of his eye and is startled at the look of anger on Russia's features.  
  
"Slumped in the middle of a street of infected, practically catatonic. What kind of Hero are you?" There's a wet crunch as Russia swings at a corpse' head a bit too hard and the skull bursts open like an overripe watermelon. Oh, and he is angry. He's downright scowling at America now, and the change from Russia's usual placid, seemingly happy demeanor to this is strange.  
  
"Mind explaining that?"  
  
America has seen a serious Russia on several occasions. Not many, but over the years he's gotten used to the fact that sometimes Russia can come out of his trance like madness and actually seem almost sane. This is almost one of those times, and the combination of a somber Russia on a street of corpses holding a pipe that's positively _dripping_ with blood and gore sends a shiver down America's spine.  
  
He honestly can't explain it. Shock is probably the closest to an explanation he'll ever get, but just the feel of it all had been too much. The screaming had started up a fraction of a second after he felt his heart get ripped wide open- and then he was everywhere. He was in a hundred different places, seeing out of the eyes of a million different people and he was witnessing the same pain and terror, _globally._ It wasn't isolated to the U.S. It was everywhere. He watched through the eyes of a young soldier as a monk was torn in half in China. A church was decimated in moments somewhere in Italy. He'd even had a brief flash of how things were in Russia, and the vision had seemed out of place without the big Russian there as its defender. There was just so much pain, all around them.  
  
His silence should speak volumes but Russia just snarls quietly under his breath and crushes a little boy's skull under his boot. He mutters something in Russian that America thinks can't possibly be endearing. America clears his throat, fires a shot over his shoulder, rises from the half crouch he'd been in.  
  
"Come on, I know a place where we can get some quality sniping in."  
  
Russia glares at him, makes an annoyed hissing sound from between his teeth, then neatly clears the path as he takes out up to six zombies with one swipe. When he turns back towards America he's smiling again, the anger wiped clear from his features.  
  
"If you take us to the White House I will make sure you die, very painfully."  
  
America looks back at him and laughs, low and deep in his throat. His Boss is dead. The White House would do them no good. No, he'll take them to his house, maybe on the roof. He has more guns there, at the very least. And it's out of the city, so they could hole up for at least a little while. Wait it out. Now all they need to do is find a car...  
  
America faces Russia, and meets him with a smile of his own. Their eyes shine brightly with madness.  
  
"Well then, let's go."


End file.
